


Everything in its Right Place

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a week reuniting with family and friends, Karma and Amy finally get some much needed alone time as they prepare to enter the next phase of their relationship.</p><p>
  <i>“That look isn’t new, but the reason for it is.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything in its Right Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spasticandviolent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spasticandviolent/gifts).



> Future fic. Follows canon up to the end of 2B with mentions of characters included in 3A. Written for my partner in Karmy crime, @spasticandviolent, because she wanted some Karmy fluff where they’re also in an established relationship. Well, here it is! I had a lot of fun writing this and playing with the pairings outside of Karmy. All the places referenced are real. The reference to the Titanic episode of Mythbusters is purely a touch of authorial indulgence. My two favourite OTPs had to meet! Title from the Radiohead song of the same name, but not remotely thematically similar.

_“There is no room in my body for anything but you._  
_My arms love you, my knees shake with blind affection._  
_My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey.”_  
– William Goldman, _The Princess Bride._

***

Just when you think you can’t love Karma anymore, she does something that makes you change your mind and fall in love with her all over again. Right now, it’s rescuing you from your complete lack of motor skills to open the door of your apartment – you’re not even drunk, thank you very much. Ten minutes ago, it was the look of sheer joy on her face when she looked down at the still new engagement ring on her finger while you sat in a cab stuck in horrendous late-night traffic, longing to be home. Half an hour ago, it was the cute way she blushed when Zita complemented that ring after admiring it for a solid minute, radiating jealousy. An hour before that, it was how she knew exactly what to order for you from the menu at Filament, because she knows you so well, and you’ve blown so many paydays on dates there – the fried chicken is insane and you always split their red velvet dessert – since you made a life for yourselves in Dallas after moving here for college. Two hours ago, it was the smile on her face when she announced your engagement to your assembled friends, glasses already raised to toast your latest reunion, looking over at you like you’re the most amazing person ever to exist.

That look isn’t new, but the reason for it is.

A week ago, during a mini road trip to Fredericksburg that you almost thought might never happen - the hours you had to work to pay for everything and to stack up the vacation time were ridiculous - you stood underneath the stars with her at Enchanted Rock State Park and asked her to marry you, finally putting into action the plan you’d hatched with Lauren over iMessage, FaceTime, and text for months. Standing there hand-in-hand with Karma, feeling like you were on the edge of the universe, was the perfect opportunity to cement the life you’ve built together. The most calculated of risks. You felt the yes more than heard it, the sound lost amidst tears, kisses, and the smattering of applause from the small assembled group of fellow stargazers. Seeing her face when you slipped the ring onto her finger was worth all the hours hiking the Summit Trail in the heat – Karma’s gotten you into spin class, boxercise, and yoga now, but you still loathe stuff like that, even if it does get you a close-up view of her ass in lycra and she bribes you with reward sex. In all seriousness, you think you’d go to the ends of the Earth for that smile. It almost killed you to get to the top of that damn pink granite rock, but she made it worth your while once you did.

The rest of the trip was a happy blur of spa treatments, room service, and lots more celebratory sex in The Titian Suite at the Trois Estate, taking full advantage of the king size bed and the jacuzzi tub. OK, so you’ll be living off of Ramen and Lucky Charms for the next _forever_ if Lauren’s grand vision for your wedding is anything to go by, but if anyone’s worth spoiling, it’s Karma. You’d happily go back there for the wedding, make it a smaller affair, but it’s already snowballing beyond your control.

In fact, you’ve been zigzagging across so much of Texas this week that you’ve barely had any time to actually _be_ with Karma, which is ridiculous, since that was the whole fucking point of the vacation, and was the main thrust of your pitch to Gillian, your boss at the gallery. She still kind of terrifies you, because she has serious Anna Wintour-slash-Miranda Priestley vibes, but she met Karma once and was utterly charmed, convinced she should be some sort of model. It just so happened that the mid afternoon sun chose that particular moment to hit Karma’s profile in exactly the right way and made her look “just like a Botticelli painting.” She’s the first person apart from you that Gillian’s ever held in high regard or had positive things to say about. She was actually interested in your life beyond your ability to pick up dry cleaning and lunch orders, wanting to know more about her story of giving piano lessons to (snobbish, bratty, insufferable) children to help fund her way through grad school and rack up more teaching experience while she waits out an opening at Woodrow Wilson High School. Compared to Gillian, you’re small fry, minnows, in your shoebox apartment with its astronomical rent. After Karma’s visit Gillian asked to see your photography portfolio, and for once she actually looked at pages instead of just flipping through them with disinterest. If you weren’t certain you were going to marry her already by that point - the ring had already been bought, hidden in the pocket of your favourite baseball jacket you’ve had since high school - then you would’ve on the strength of that.

Everyone loves Karma. It’s a problem.

Each of the planned stops you’ve made this week on your little engagement tour was just meant to be overnight, two days at the most, but they all got stretched out past that. Half the week was spent with Karma’s parents in Austin, the other half with your own – yes, as a unit, which is completely bizarre – in Houston, and then time with your nana in Denton. The whole experience has left you happier, but surely two hundred pounds heavier because of all the congratulatory dinners you shared with them.

“Let’s get inside,” you whisper, sliding your arms around Karma to hug her from behind. “I want you all to myself,” you add, pressing soft teasing kisses to her neck. She murmurs her approval, leaning toward you instead of away.

“You expect me to be fast when you’re distracting me with kisses like that?” she asks with a laugh.

“I expect many things,” you tease, reluctantly releasing her.

“Well, babe, whether you get them is another thing altogether,” she counters, feigning stern as she finally opens the door.

“Empty threats!”

It’s cute; this attempt at resistance, but it never lasts. You can barely keep your hands off each other ordinarily, but ever since you got engaged it’s even worse – or better, depending on your perspective – you’ve been all over each other any chance you can get. Nowhere has been off-limits. Karma even coaxed you into going at it on the floor when you remembered just how creaky the bed springs in your Nana’s guest room are. Carpet burn be damned. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Get in here!” she demands, grabbing a fistful of your shirt and pulling you through the door.

There’s a musical jangle as Karma tosses her keys and her bag on the side table. She keeps you in place, palm flat on your chest, and you wait, knowing your part, kicking the door in the hope it’ll close. Then, she’s back, close enough to kiss, but holding back, teasing, until you can’t take it anymore and move toward her. The door definitely closes when she backs you right against it, seconds later, her body, her hips, pressed tight to yours. It takes you by surprise, cutting off any ideas you might’ve had about being in control. She captures your bottom lip, snagging, biting, laughing into the kiss. It’s no sweet welcome home kiss like when you get in from work at the gallery and she’s on the couch, surrounded by a pile of textbooks and notes. Tonight, her kisses are quick, heated, and wanting. Clearly this whole newly engaged thing is working for her too. Oh, and maybe she’s had little too much champagne.

You start to walk her back toward the couch, shrugging out of your jacket and ignoring your phone when it buzzes in your pants pocket for the fourth time in as many minutes. Gillian’s assistant, Joanna, seems to think that having a direct line to you means you’re her bitch at all times. Along with Kelly and Sean, you _are_ Joanna’s bitch from nine in the morning until five at night, after that, she can go jump. No one and nothing else matters but the time you have with Karma. Things are going exactly where you want them to: between quick, greedy kisses, you’ve gotten Karma out of her jacket, you’re both out of your heels, and the super pretty (and expensive) collection of cushions that adorn the couch are about to get tossed, because you’re going to lay Karma down on it and kiss every inch of inch of her, and you’ll have two hands to touch her instead of using one of them to keep her quiet. She can scream the building down for all you care.

Except, she’s kissing back more slowly, and you can feel her pulling away, smiling against your lips as she does.

“Routine, babe,” is all she says with a little pout, as she swings around in front of you, headed for the bathroom.

“Ugh, seriously?” you sigh, throwing your hands up, frustrated. “Karm, come on,” you protest, catching hold of her hand. It comes out a little whinier than you intended.

“Seriously,” she echoes, kissing you on the cheek. “I just want to get all this off my face,” she gestures vaguely, indicating her makeup. “Then, all I want is to sit on that couch with you in our PJ’s and relax, OK?” you frown a little and she comes closer, resting her hands on your hips when she adds, “I miss just _being_ with you. In our space. In our own way,” she continues, quieter, brushing her lips briefly against yours.

“Well,” you muse, “when you put it like that,” you smile, brushing her cheek with your hand. “It makes a lot of sense.”

“Good,” she beams, turning away. “Ooh, can you get me?” she asks, indicating the zipper on her dress.

Honestly, if it was anyone else, you’d _kill_ them for pulling a stunt like that, but it’s Karma so you smile and do as she asks, dropping a kiss to the back of her neck as you lift her hair and unzip her halfway so she can shimmy out of the rest. Or, more precisely, so you can _watch_ her shimmy out of it. You have no shame. Karma’s happy in her skin now, and that makes her confident and sexy, and even more beautiful than you already thought she was.

“You know, this dress looks amazing on you, but I think it looks so much better on our bedroom floor. You know, objectively speaking.”

“Uh-huh, I know what you think,” she replies, swatting at you playfully when she turns back around, practically skipping off toward the bathroom with this _look_ she only has for you: equal parts adoring and flirtatious. “Objectively.”

You chase her into the bathroom, stealing another kiss as she laughs at it, tapping her on the ass for good measure. “Hurry.”

“Sorry we all can’t be as naturally gorgeous as you!”

“Stop, stop, you make me blush!” you clutch your chest dramatically.

She makes a face, amused. “Go get changed! I need your wine opening skills.”

Your interest piques. “Oh, there’s gonna be wine?”

“Yes. You, me, wine, couch, TV,” she lists quickly, picking through the assembled products on her side of the vanity.

The days of beer and pizza are _definitely_ over.

You’re getting to be real adults now instead of playing at it. Well, you still play at it sometimes, but your dad got you into wine on a tasting trip to Napa. Really, it was about time you stopped only drinking beer and cocktails, and you’ve poured so much wine out at gallery receptions you had to get a taste for it, and a better palette to appreciate it with.

“If you need to be further convinced, let’s just say,” she pauses for effect, lip caught between her teeth, “that little kissing thing we had going on? Well, it’s to be continued.”

“Sold,” you reply, far too hastily, and she lets out a peal of laughter.

You press a quick kiss to her cheek and she shoos you away again. It’s lame, but when she turns away to look in the mirror and starts to take her makeup off, you look back at her, wondering how the hell you got so lucky. She sees you looking and smiles: this warm, beautiful, _loving_ smile that makes your heart hurt in the best way. This is _your_ Karma you think: content, calm, and completely at ease with herself and you. She’ll wear her glasses and her retainer, because she doesn’t feel self-conscious about needing either of them around you, and she hates keeping her contacts in when she doesn’t need to. She’ll wear sweats, and put her hair up in a messy bun, and be fine with it. She’ll dress up, and curl her hair, and do her makeup, and look amazing like she does tonight. She’ll be somewhere between those two places on other days when she’s at college or taking lessons, but everyone gets to see that, and it’s been a week of being ‘on’ rather than ‘off,’ so the fact that she’s relaxing to this degree is a good sign. You worry about her and whether she spreads herself too thin, but she knows her limits, and you’ll be there whenever she needs you.

That’s the way it’s always been. Getting married is just an extension of that.

People think you’re nuts, that you’re too young still – Karma is barely 22 – that it’s completely the wrong time to be getting married because of how much money you _don’t_ have to pull off the wedding she deserves, but you don’t want to wait anymore. So much of your life with her and loving her has been about waiting. Even the night you finally got together at senior prom was, save for graduation, the last time it could happen. Though you ended up at the same college – the happiest of accidents borne out of when you were in that weird limbo phase of not being enemies and not really being friends either – your social circle at college intersected because of music and art history being related, but they were radically different.

You said once that you should just marry each other, and that feeling’s never really gone away. In fact, it’s blossomed and deepened beyond what you ever thought it could. During your proposal you told her as much. It took you forever to try and summarise how you feel about her and distil it all down into a proposal, but you think you managed it. Just. The words are still fresh, her reaction to them fresher still. You don’t think you’ll ever forget how her face looked when it dawned on her what was happening, lit up, brighter than the starfield over your heads. Teary, overwhelmed and shaky, somehow you got through it, holding her from behind, whispering the words in her ear, metered out by the speeding of your own heart.

_Karma, you’re my best friend. You’re my person, my one-woman cheer squad. You’re my protector, my greatest advocate. You believe in me when other people can’t, don’t, or won’t. You’ve seen me at my best and my worst, and loved me anyway. You’re my soulmate. The love of my life, and I can’t see a future that you’re not a part of. I love you; in every way it’s possible to love someone. More than I ever have. Deeper than I ever have. I want to be with you, and love you, and share my life with you in every way possible. Karma, will you marry me?_

Yeah, it’s a lot to think about.

If she’s watching you now, rushing around your bedroom as you get undressed, phone forgotten in its usual spot on the nightstand – Joanna and her decisions about fonts and viral marketing rollouts can wait – she’s going to think you’re nuts. Your clothes strewn are haphazardly on the floor, while Karma’s are in a neat pile on the small armchair opposite your bed, and you’re standing half naked, clutching your shirt, on the verge of tears, because the fact that you’re actually _getting_ married is crazy to you. It hits you at odd and inopportune moments. Not the fact that she said yes, Karma already told you it was the biggest no-brainer, the easiest yes ever, but the fact that you’re going to do it, you’re going to commit to each other in the biggest, most public way, and all your family and friends will see it. Everyone who ever doubted you will see how much you love and adore each other - you do, it’s honestly kind of disgusting. You complete each other. Two imperfect puzzle pieces that only fit a certain way. Together.

You shake it off, wriggling out of your fanciest jeans – Karma’s favourite, skinny, dark indigo that apparently make your ass look amazing – comforted by the familiar sounds of Karma’s routine. You can tell exactly where she is in it by the number of times the faucet has run and how many product bottle caps have been popped open. Truthfully, you’re kind of glad she slowed this down. Everything about today has been a rush, and it feels like neither of you had time to appreciate it. The moment you reach for your favourite old sleep shirt, she’ll be readying the lite version of the routine she has for you, and you’ll let her roll it out. Then, you’ll stay at the sink with her, brushing your teeth together, racing, like you did when you were little girls during sleepovers. By the time you pull on that shirt – gloriously, mercifully, bra free – she’s already standing there holding the brush, ready, smiling at you.

And _oh_ , does she have reason to smile.

Ordinarily she’d throw on her favourite cute little sleep shorts – she has that many PJ’s they have their own drawer; it’s impressive – but tonight, she’s not going for cute, she’s going for that devastating, subtly sexy thing only she can pull off, paring makeup-free, glasses, and a bun with a Victoria’s Secret robe, a floral slip just visible underneath when she slowly parts it with her free hand.

“Wow,” you blurt out, jaw somewhere on the floor.

“Correct reaction,” she smiles, pouting her lips in a kiss.

“That’s new right?” you ask needlessly, already knowing it is.

She likes to shop between classes or on her lunch hour with Laura, a fellow classmate, and one of her closest friends. She’s become a great friend to you too. They’re a terrible – wonderful – influence on each other, and you’re certain Laura’s responsible for the increase in Karma’s lingerie and shoe addiction, but you’re not about to complain, not when she looks like this. Not when she’s as beautiful as this.

“I know, it’s a little mishmash, but I couldn’t wait any longer to show it to you.”

Never have you been more grateful for her impatience. You move closer, pulling her towards you and wrapping your arms around her waist. The toothbrushes go down on the vanity. She means business. “Gorgeous,” you breathe, dipping your head to kiss her. “Totally gorgeous.”

“I try.” She smiles against your lips, reaching up on her toes to deepen the kiss. “All yours.”

Things start to get heated quickly, and she’s pulling up the nightshirt you just put on. It takes every ounce of will you have _not_ to pick her up and carry her to bed right now. Really, it’s a miracle you made it out of the door to go to the restaurant because you had to shower, and then Karma decided to get in the shower _with_ you. Predictably, you ended up having sex, which also, predictably, meant you were the last to arrive. This time, you show some vague semblance of restraint and pull away.

The look on Karma’s face is delicious and dazed. Love drunk.

“Routine, babe,” you remind her with a smirk.

“Touché” she replies, with wry smile. “Fucker!” she adds, swatting at you playfully, and passing back your toothbrush.

“The faster we do this, the faster you do me,” you offer, half instruction, half challenge. “Remember, we still have the rest of the weekend together.”

“Amy!”

“What? Since when are you miss innocent?!”

Her brush stalls on its journey to her mouth. “Soon-to-be _mrs_ innocent, thank you.”

She looks at you pointedly, blushing slightly. Your chest does that seizing, lurching thing again and you kiss her temple. You really can’t _fucking_ wait to get married and introduce her to people as your wife. Your beautiful, talented, wife. For now, it’s back to the routine. More specifically, you’re back to teeth cleaning races, because you know sometimes it’s still fine to be a kid. Karma’s the last person who will make fun of you. Being an adult gets tiring. It’s been an amazing week, but a draining one.

“I won!” she declares a few minutes later, spraying toothpaste foam everywhere.

“Attractive,” you laugh and she pouts at it, rinsing. “Congrats, you’re still the champion.”

“Celebration wine?” she asks, head tilting cutely in question as she reaches to take your makeup off with her favourite cloth. Sephora loves her.

“And snacks,” you overlap; flinching as she rubs at your face in practiced circular motions.

“Amy, we ate like, two hours ago,” she reminds you, like that number should somehow mean eating again is unacceptable.

“I’m hungry!” you protest and she just rolls her eyes, flipping over the cloth and repeating the process. “I got performance anxiety!”

“Aww really?” she softens, leaning up to kiss you. “Dork.”

It’s not a lie. You were so excited about seeing everyone again, and nervous about what they might say, it killed your appetite, so all you ended up eating was salad, dinner rolls, and your share of Karma’s red velvet cake. Now your stomach is rumbling in protest.

“Yeah, I just wanted it to be perfect. I know you took forever to plan it.”

You take her hand in both of yours, looking down at the ring, still new, still fitting perfectly on her finger – the diamonds sparkle even more under the bright lights in the bathroom, contrasting against the yellow and white gold perfectly. As soon as you saw it in the window of the upscale jewellery store Lauren found, you knew it was made for Karma, and didn’t care what it cost. After the announcement itself, the ring was the central topic of speculation. You’ve never seen Karma look so happy, so beautiful, and so radiant before. Or, rather, people never saw her how you always saw her before.

“It was perfect. You were with me,” she replies, quietly. “It’s perfect now too."

“How bout I go pour that celebratory wine while you finish up moisturising that gorgeous face?”

“You remembered!” she beams, and presses another kiss to your lips.

“Of course, I love watching you get ready, and err, unready.”

She chuckles. “Good answer, some people would never have the patience to wait.”

“I’m not most people,” you remind her, turning away, headed for the kitchen. Your joined hands stretch across the space, and you leave it until the last possible moment to let go.

You love watching her get ready, there’s something fascinating about it that you’ve never been able to quantify. No matter how long it takes, you never complain, you never get bored because the wait is always worth it. Hours ago, she was putting stuff on instead of taking it off, but still it applies. You filled the time with checking work emails for the upcoming show at the gallery. It’s the first time you’ve been able to work on something that’s not about fetching, carrying, or copying something, and it means you’ve been pulling insane hours as a result. Karma’s been patient too, knowing exactly what it means to you, even if it’s only a different kind of admin. You’re learning, and it’s closer to what you wanted to be doing. She’s always there waiting when you get home, no matter how long you’ve stayed after closing.

Tonight’s the only night you could have your quasi Hester reunion. Lauren and Felix (you’re sure Karma knows more about those two than she’s letting on) drove in from Round Rock. Lauren’s too busy being _Texas Lifestyle Monthly’_ s Greatest Ever Junior Copy Editor - her official title - and making Felix’s life a misery by calling the IT dept every two seconds. Liam and Zita flew in from some tech conference thing in Washington, because now he’s Mark Zuckerberg Jr, and she’s micromanaging his life while looking fabulous and vlogging about it (how easily they have it doesn’t make you nearly as pissed as it used to). Shane was typically late and annoyingly tan, arriving more or less straight from his decidedly cooler vacation with Noah in Saint Croix, though, given how many new selfies there are on Shane’s Instagram, you don’t know how they actually had time to do anything on that vacation but take pictures. That’s the perk of running an urban lifestyle brand startup you guess. One day you’ll have your own gallery space or your own exhibition, and your degree will mean something. One day Karma will have that teaching job, and be the kind of music teacher everyone loves and they make Hollywood movies for.

But, you made it, you were all in the same place for the first time since they came to your and Karma’s graduation from Southern Methodist.

You didn’t know how much you missed them all until tonight. Yes, even Liam. As much as you love all the texts and status notifications, nothing beats hanging out sharing a ton of food, wine, and conversation. It’s crazy to think about how long they’ve been in your lives and how much has changed, seeing the proof in front of your face. Then, you’re glad about how obnoxious Shane is about documenting everything, and you get why Karma’s so intent on organising these kinds of things. They’ve come to mean something to you, and mean more to you than you ever expected. Their reaction to your wedding news couldn’t have been better. Lauren was typically dramatic about having known all along and gloating about it. Shane’s immediate reaction was to cry - real tears - and then hit you because you kept it a secret. Zita’s was to order champagne. Somehow, the two extremes are perfectly fitting. Felix was typically sweet about the whole thing, offering to be the one to shoot the wedding video because you’ll be rather busy. Even Liam’s congratulations were heartfelt. The days of point scoring and seeing Karma as some kind of possession you can fight over in some weird emotional tug-of-war are over too. Sure, you’re never going to be BFF’s, but you don’t want to kill him on sight anymore, and that’s real progress.

Maybe you actually _are_ an adult, or you’re just more forgiving than you thought. Maybe you’ve been flitting around too much creating room ambience or you’ve just been standing staring at the contents of the fridge too long while the wine breathes. Who knows?

You reach up, resorting to the cabinets instead, making a horrendous noise as you open, rifle through, and close each one, looking for where Karma keeps the good snacks - the fancy ones she keeps for when your parents come. The kitchen is her domain. That’s not some anti-feminist bullshit; it’s just plain fact. The only thing you’re good at making is grilled cheese, guacamole, cool whip, Ramen, tea, and coffee, with an excellent proficiency at dialling takeout. Your beverage skill is only because of how much you have to make for clients at the gallery, because Gillian refuses to keep sending you out to the coffeehouse around the corner. Karma, by comparison, is like fucking Rachel Ray or Ina Garten. She’s amazing. You have her and Food Network to thank for keeping you from starving. Somehow you think that Doritos - your usual fix for an attack of the munchies - aren’t a great complement to wine, or a good idea when ‘to be continued’ is echoing in your head.

Karma loves you, but that’s pushing it. When you find the new tube of original flavour Pringles you can almost hear the choir of angels. If this was any other night you’d happily sit on the couch and share the whole tube with her, passing it back and forth, but tonight, it’s special, so out come the little bowls you use for popcorn and the fancy dinner party snacks, and you only tip in half, sneaking extras along the way.

“I can hear you!” Karma calls, and even though you can’t see her, you know she’s smiling.

“Consumer testing,” you reply, between one chip and the next, pouring yourself the tiniest sip of wine just to make sure it tastes OK. “Wouldn’t want my fiancée to die from a rogue Pringle!”

It doesn’t taste quite the same as when you and Karma were in the Napa sunshine at the winery with your dad, but it’s still pretty good.

“Say that again,” she requests, softly. You sigh as you feel her arms wrap around you from behind. “I like it.”

“What, about you dying from rogue Pringles?” you play dumb, barely able to keep from laughing or spilling any wine as you pour it between the two glasses. They’re the big kind, the ones that look nice but kill your unit allowance. Who cares, you don’t have work in the morning, and it’s a special night.

“You know what I mean!” she swats at you and moves around for the bowl of chips, stealing one.

“For you, fiancée,” you smile, offering her the glass and clinking it with yours in toast when she takes it.

“That’s never going to get boring is it?” she asks, moving toward the couch, putting the chips down on the coffee table.

“Nope,” you smile, moving to join her when she pats the couch, motioning for you to sit. “Not at all. And even if it does, I get to call you my wife soon.”

“Yeah, I like _that_ even better."

For a while, you’re content to just sit like that, idly sipping wine and channel surfing with Karma curled into your side, watching her reaction when she sees something funny, or weird, or just plain _stupid_ on the infomercials. You have no idea why you bought such a big couch, because you rarely use the full length of it. Karma’s always cuddling with you, or you with her. You have no concept of personal space. When she moves even closer you press a kiss to the side of her head, still getting a strange flutter of butterflies when she puts her hand on your chest and you look down to see her ring glinting in the lowered light of the living room.

“Babe, look,” she says suddenly, pointing at the screen. “It’s your favourite _Mythbusters_ episode. The Titanic one!”

“I haven’t seen this in forever!”

She shakes her head, smiling at you, and you don’t even care how dorky you sound right now. She loves you anyway. Maybe she loves you more, you don’t know. You both settle in and she scoots around, putting her legs in your lap. Downing the last of your wine, you put the glass on the table, and turn your attention back to her, massaging her feet gently as you watch. She loves her Louboutins – real ones, thank you, you’re not in the habit of buying her cheap knock-offs – but after a long day, they kill her, and you have a pretty good technique.

“I’ve trained you so well,” she comments with a soft smile, looking at you over her wine glass.

“Someone had to.”

You just look at each other for what seems a long time, smiling – probably idiotically – but you don’t care about that either. You don’t care because this is what you used to imagine what life with her, loving her, would be like. Not fancy vacations or expensive presents. This, right now, in a shoebox apartment.

This is the kind of time you wanted. This is perfect. This is perfectly you and Karma. No phones, no other people interrupting and dragging you out to clubs, restaurants, or shopping malls. Just you and Karma, in your own private universe. That place used to be easier to find time to retreat to, but then you used to be less about socialising too. Karma helped shape you into that person, and you’re glad, because it just makes the alone time you have with her more special. Just because you both have more friends now and spend time with them zigzagging across the country for this or that concert, doesn’t mean you can’t still have time for each other. It’s a hard lesson to learn, and a difficult balance sometimes, but no one else is worth the trying.

“Would you have done that for me?” Karma asks after a while.

“Hmm?” you ask, midway between one Pringle and the next.

“The door,” she prompts.

“Oh!” you laugh. “Of course!”

“But then you’d be at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“But you’d be safe,” you argue, because that’s all that matters. “You’d go to New York and fly a plane and whatever other shit Old Rose does.”

“But I wouldn’t have you,” she pouts, looking almost sad. You stroke her leg to comfort her. “You hate the cold.”

It’s true. You loathe extremes of temperature. One of the earliest work trips you took with Joanna and Sean was to the Aspen Art Museum, right after it got refurbed. It was amazing, and beautiful, but your abiding memory of it is freezing your ass off in addition to getting bitched at by Joanna.

“Fine, then either we both go on the door or we’re both in the sea,” you offer. “We’re together.”

“We’re also both dead,” she reminds you. You’d chosen to ignore that part. Creative licence.

“Catch 22, darlin’”

“Rose can never win!” she declares dramatically, swinging her legs back to the floor. Her wine glass, now empty, gets placed on the table next to yours. Seeing things in twos like that is still a novelty.

She’s gearing up for something. This is her patented ‘Let’s go to bed’ move.

“If you start singing Celine Dion at me, that’s it!” you warn, jokingly. She laughs, full and bright, and pointedly opens her mouth as if to sing.

She waits, purposefully, with a devilish smile on her face, just as they’re doing the test with two people on the door. Then, she does sing that _damn_ song, laughing, and delightfully off key, with lots of hand actions. You surge forward, cutting her off with a kiss before she gets to that horrendous, saccharine earworm of a chorus. Suddenly, the _Mythbusters_ boys and the door don’t matter so much. She murmurs her approval, hand sliding into your hair and kissing you back, slow, passionate and deep. You’ve kissed her thousands of times, but it feels different somehow.

“Take me to bed,” Karma breathes, right in the shell of your ear - half want, half demand.

That’s _definitely_ different.

You know already that it’ll be different when you do get into the bedroom. Different from the fast, slippery friction of the shower this afternoon. Different from the greedy, quick fumbles in the bathrooms of clubs like when you were first in college. Different too, from the very first time you slept together on prom night following Karma’s latent, teary confession of love; all awkward fumbling and shaky hands. It took you a whole summer to get in tune with each other and build Karma’s confidence where that’s concerned, but now, it’s easy. It’s wonderful. You know her tells, you know what she wants and how to give it to her. You just know each other. _Completely_.

Wordlessly, you pull away from her, and get up off the couch, turning off the TV and offering your hand for her to take. She looks up at you with the softest of smiles before lacing her fingers with yours. The apartment seems twice as big as it normally is, and you’re barely through the bedroom doorway before you’re pulling her close again. You kiss her lightly, just once, and carefully take off her glasses, placing them next to your phone. When you look back at Karma, she’s slowly untying her robe, with this _look_ in her eyes that you’ve never seen before.

“This,” she begins, peeling the robe off like some slow – deliciously slow – striptease. And she’s definitely enjoying the teasing when she adds, “is all yours, babe.”

You gulp; mouth suddenly dry, and you’re speechless. Utterly speechless, your eyes going wide as the robe pools at her feet, and she pulls off the slip underneath in one glorious, fluid motion. Her matching panties go shortly after. No matter how many times you’ve seen her naked – a lot, clothes were very optional during that summer of discovery – it never gets old. It never fails to turn you on. She’s beautiful. So beautiful and so incredibly _sexy_ , and she finally knows it.

She smiles devilishly, beckoning you closer with a crooked finger. She doesn’t even have to tell you to take off your shirt, not anymore. Words on nights like this are pretty superfluous. Especially when Karma’s looking at you like she is. You pull off your shirt faster than you ever have, tossing it to the side, your boyshorts go just right after, kicked away, forgotten. Fuck clothes right now. Fuck everything but your skin on her skin. Your mouth on her mouth. Fuck anything not remotely related to any of that. You step closer, your hands frame her face, tilting it upwards slightly, and you kiss her again, and again, and again – light and delicate, entirely different to before – as you both walk back towards the bed. Like always, she lets out a little peel of laughter when the back of her legs hit the bed frame, and she wraps her arms around you, pulling you on top of her so you fall onto the bed together. You sigh into her mouth, still revelling in the feeling of her skin against yours. Every part of you touching every part of her as her legs wrap around your waist, pulling you closer still.

“I love you,” Karma says around a sigh as your kisses drift down her neck.

“I love you,” you breathe, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I,” then other, lighter ones, down the valley of her breasts, “love,” another, lingering over her heart, “you,” ending with a purposeful longer kiss on her stomach, palms flat, stroking her skin.

It bears repeating. Screw what people say about it losing meaning the more it’s said. Karma’s face lights up in the same spectacular July 4th kind of way. At 15, at 18, at 22, and all the years in between, and all the years in the future. It makes her happy, hearing those three little words. They’re everything she’s longed for, and their power hasn’t dimmed.

You gaze up at her, seeing her smiling down at you. Adoring. Anticipating. She reaches down, twining her fingers with yours, and it’s then you realise it: her engagement ring is the only thing she’s wearing. It’s perfect. She’s perfect.

“My beautiful girl,” you say, soft, reverent, resting your head on her stomach.

She blinks slowly, registering it, but says nothing. She’s blushing sweetly, and it makes her look radiant.

You press a deliberate kiss just below her navel and continue on your slow, slow descent. She likes it that way; soft, sexy, sensual. She always comes the hardest when you’ve taken longer to kiss her and touch her, but you’re both a little too eager tonight. You’re trying to spin this out, because really, it turns you on too. But, you can’t wait, you _need_ to taste her. Now. Your hands slide downwards, caressing her thighs as you pepper kisses across her stomach and hips, teeth nipping just a little. She hums in contentment, her legs falling open a little wider as you dip your head lower and move your hands around, gripping her thighs slightly, lifting her legs to rest over your shoulders. She lets out a long, shaky breath, and you feel her hand in your hair, running through it, pushing it back. Then, as your lips just touch the inside of her right thigh, tracing a delicate path, her grip tightens. When your tongue meets with her hot, slick folds, gently teasing with long practised licks, that grip on your hair tightens even more urging you closer. It hurts a little when she tugs like that, but it’s the right kind of pain. Like you knew they would, her hips rise to try and meet your mouth. Like you knew she would, her breath hitches - it’s never high and sharp, not yet. It’s like a sigh, a content sigh of relief, because you’re where she wants you. Where she needs you. Like you knew you would, you love that first taste of her: that indescribable sweet-salt warmth. Intoxicating. You’ll never be able to get enough of it.

That deep feeling of bliss is still there, hours later, when you’re woken by the sun, filtering in through the window. Neither of you thought to close the curtains. Here’s hoping the guy across the street in the next building closed his. If not, he got a really good show. Your eyes and your limbs are still heavy with tiredness. Truthfully, you didn’t get a lot of sleep at all, but you’re not remotely mad about it.

The night passed in a blur of kissing and touching everything you could reach until you were hot and sweaty. At some point - you’re not sure how many times you had sex, they’ve merged into one delicious stream of lovemaking, and you don’t use that word lightly – you collapsed against the pillows on your back, staring up at the ceiling, breathing ragged, not sure how to articulate the myriad of intense feelings rushing through your bodies. You both turned to each other and said “holy shit” at roughly the same time, and burst out laughing. What was night for you ended with your arms around Karma, her head on your chest, tangled up in the sheets and each other.

You haven’t had a night like that in _way_ too long, and it shows.

Every muscle in your body has that satisfying soreness that comes with really good sex. And, it was _insanely_ good. Even better than usual, and it’s usually right up there. You’re just attuned to each other now. There aren’t words for what Karma’s mouth, and Karma’s hands, and Karma’s tongue can do. Well, there _are_ obviously, but none of them feel superlative enough. She has her own brand of magic that works just for you. You reach out, expecting to find the warmth her body on the left side of the bed, where she always is, but she’s not. Thankfully, you’ve lived with her and loved her long enough, for that not to send you spiralling into panic. She’s a morning person - up and around at ungodly hours, relentlessly perky, as bright as the sunshine you’re shielding your eyes from - and you love her for it. She’s the best alarm clock ever invented. Who needs stupid tones when you have her voice in your ear, rousing you with a soft “Good morning, sleepyhead?"

In her absence you nuzzle into her pillow, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of her perfume and sigh contentedly. Then, you hear the sound of the door, brushing against the carpet, and you lift your head, still bleary eyed, to see Karma’s head peep around, beaming at you. She’s wearing your sleep shirt with her hair piled on her head in a messy bun and she hasn’t bothered to put her contacts back in yet. If you weren’t ridiculously in love with her already, you would be now. You wish you had a camera ready to go because she looks so perfect you want to take a picture for posterity. Somehow, you think it wouldn’t do her any real justice.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake,” she says, smiling warmly.

“I am,” you reply, smiling back at her.

You probably look like an idiot, but you don’t care.

“I have something for you,” she declares, singsong.

“Karm, what did you do?” you ask, gaze fixed on her, wondering as you rearrange the pillows so you can sit up and rest against the headboard.

In the absence of the duvet – still pooled on the floor at the end of the bed – you gather the sheets around you for modesty and warmth. You don’t really care about being naked and neither does Karma, but it doesn’t feel right. Whatever she has planned feels important.

“I did what you deserve. To thank you for how amazing this week has been.”

Still, she doesn’t give too much up. Still, she looks at you those same, soft, reverent eyes.

She’s right. Even though it has been hectic and crazy, it’s been amazing. You’ve never felt so loved before by everyone around you. It’s like the love you and Karma feel for each other is somehow radiating outwards and touching everyone else.

“I like spoiling you. You’ve been working hard. You deserve it too. If I can’t treat my girlfriend – my fiancée – who can?” you counter, and she just shrugs, a light blush colouring her cheeks.

“I like spoiling you too, you know,” she offers, like hearing those words come from her still matters as much as when you were young and naive and renegotiating what kind of love you shared and what Karma’s loving you meant.

You nod, admitting defeat. “I know, and I love you for it.”

The truth of it is, you both adore each other. You both buy flowers, and gifts, and do little things for no real reason aside from kindness, and happiness, and love.

“This is the first part,” she informs you before briefly disappearing again. “Don’t move!” she calls after a moment because your usual instinct is to follow. “You’ll ruin the surprise.”

And it _is_ a surprise.

When she comes back, she’s carrying a full breakfast tray, complete with a small arrangement of pink roses in a vase. You have some vague recollection of Molly telling you that pink roses are ‘an indication of deep joy.’ It makes your heart flutter a little. She’s gone all out here, there’s water, orange juice, and two stacks of blueberry and banana pancakes, with a little jug of syrup on the side. Your favourite. Karma’s made this for you before - you spend every Sunday eating breakfast in bed together, but this is different, more elaborate. Even more thoughtful than usual. She must’ve gotten the flowers from the little florist on the corner you both love as soon as it opened.

“When did you …?” you trail off, not really knowing what to say.

“While you were sleeping,” she beams. “I wanted to do something special,” she continues, setting down the tray carefully and scooting over next to you.

“This is beautiful,” you say, nose in the blooms. They smell amazing. “Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome,” she replies, kissing your cheek lightly. “Let’s eat before they get cold?”

“Sure,” you nod, passing her a fork, moving as close as you can get. “It looks amazing. Again.”

“I try, darling,” she replies, suddenly bashful. It’s sweet.

Darling used to be a joke, something you’d say in stupid voices, well on the way to drunkenness, but not anymore. It’s in the repertoire of you terms of endearment, with ‘honey’ and ‘babe’ and you kind of love it, or maybe you just like how it sounds when it Karma’s the one saying it. You’re not really sure.

As soon as you take your first bite, full of a little banana, blueberry, and a liberal dose of maple, you let out a groan. It’s indecent really, but they taste so good. Light, and fluffy, and a million times better than the pancakes you can get anywhere around here.

“Fuck, I so picked the right girl to marry!” you blurt out, between one mouthful and the next.

“So that’s all I needed to do huh? Keep feeding you?!” she lets out a full belly laugh, barely able to keep from choking. “So much for feminism!”

“Ha-ha,” you look at her pointedly. “You know what I mean.”

“I do, thankfully for you. If that was anyone else I would’ve smacked them in the mouth!” a pause, and then “Do _not_ sing Beyoncé at me.”

“Good I’m not everyone then!” you grin. “But, Bey wasn’t wrong. I do more than _like_ you though. But I guess ‘I adore you, so I put a ring on it’ doesn’t sound quite right. Not a Billboard 100 chart-topper huh?”

At that, she gapes, her next forkful of food stalling on its route to her mouth.

“When the _fuck_ did you get so smooth?” she exclaims, shoving you playfully.

“I was _always_ this smooth, you just didn’t notice,” you joke.

Her eyebrows raise. “Clearly.”

You both laugh. It’s nice to be able to do that now. It just goes to show how much has changed between you, and how you’ve grown into this relationship, this partnership. That sounds _lame_ as hell, but it’s the truth, she’s your partner in all things. Still your best friend, as well as the person you love most in the world.

“Well, you’re not the only one,” she begins, cryptically, taking the cutlery out of your hands.

“Hey! I have pancakes left.”

“I have other plans,” she smirks.

You swallow hard, but play it cool. “Oh, really?”

“Really,” she nods, lifting up the tray and turning to place it on the nightstand.

You’re not so hungry anymore. Well, you’re not hungry for pancakes anyway. You’re hungry for a five foot two, green-eyed redhead with an amazing body and a smile that can wreck you at forty paces.

“As long as they involve you, me, and this bed, I’m fine.”

“Kinda.”

“Elaborate,” you encourage, leaning closer to her anyway.

“First,” she edges fractionally closer, “I have a picnic ready for us, it’s been a while since we went to White Rock Park.”

“You’re the sweetest,” you reply, smiling softly. “C’mere.”

White Rock was one of the first places you went when you got to Dallas. You only have Sundays off work, so it became your day to explore and have little dates, kind of by default, but it was always special, and totally worth the drive. Most of those dates have involved a trip to White Rock.

“I’m not done,” she pulls back, right at the exact moment you’re about to kiss her. “Then, your favourite place in the world,” she smiles big and bright. “No, not here in this bed with me,” she pre-empts, with a chuckle when you make a face.

“Studio Movie Grill?”

“Yep.”

“Karma!” you exclaim.

“Amy!” she replies, mimicking you perfectly. Then, she turns serious, taking your left hand. “And maybe we can see how to make this hand look less empty.”

“Babe, you don’t have to do that,” you remind her, sweetly.

With all her college expenses, she barely has any money left, and when she does, you want her to be able to buy something for herself. She works so hard, she deserves it.

“Yeah, but I want to. I want everyone to see that we’re together. That we belong to each other,” she pauses, trying to gather herself when she shakily adds, “that we’re meant to be.”

“We are,” you reply, overwhelmed. “We are,” you repeat, cradling her face in your hands.

Whatever huge, elaborate wedding plans Lauren has had since you asked her to be your maid of honour and plan the whole thing - she lives for this kind of stuff - they’re going to have to get scaled down, because this is _not_ becoming Lauren’s wedding by proxy. Truthfully, you’d marry Karma next week if you could. Not because you want some quickie, cheap wedding, but because you’re impatient and want to marry Karma as soon as possible. It’d be nice, no doubt, but it can be better, and you always want the best for her. You want to give her _that_ fairytale wedding she’s always talked about. Not much has changed in those plans since you were eight, sitting in the big chairs at her aunt Sarah’s - sorry, Sage - hair salon, looking at the bridal magazines, with Karma pointing out the pretty hair, and pretty dresses, and pretty flowers. Not much except she wants to marry you instead of Zac Efron.

Suddenly, this day feels a lot more serious than it did before. You slowly close the distance between you, brushing your lips against hers, smiling. She’s so amazing, and you love her so much you can’t communicate it. Right now, your heart feels so full of love that it might burst.

“You taste like syrup,” she blurts out, and you can’t help but laugh. A rumbling belly laugh.

“Delicious,” she giggles, kissing back more hungrily.

“You like it, huh?”

“I love it,” she enthuses, with just enough flirtiness for it to mean more than love of maple syrup. “I love being with you. Last night was so …”

“Uh-huh,” you nod vehemently.

“And that, that _tongue_ thing?” she flushes bright red. “So hot.”

You inhale deeply, just a little smug. “Like that too?”

She says nothing, instead, she nods, strangely shy, lip caught between her teeth.

It’s _so_ Karma. You thought she’d say something sweet and proud because of how she was looking at you, glasses coming off, added to the nightstand with everything else. When that happens, it means one of two things: seriousness, or sexiness. Her look was so focussed, so intense, and then she he came out with _that_ , and now you have no idea where she wants this to go.

Except, you do, but the pretence is nice, to tease and to play, and have the time to just _be_ with her like this with no alarms and deadlines, or emails and phone calls. Just you and Karma, like it’s always been.

There’s no reason hurry at all.

So, you keep kissing her, slow and deep, tongue curling into her mouth and tasting the same sticky-sweet syrup. You swallow down her laughter as you pull off the only thing she’s wearing, pinning her underneath you, pulling the sheets over your heads. Then, it hits you, quite suddenly, as you hover over her looking into those beautiful eyes, teetering on the edge of another kiss: every day of your life can begin just like this one. Karma is yours, and you are hers. How could you not love her? Besides all the romance, and the big speeches, and love and adoration, you have fun and she makes you laugh and you can still do stupid shit together, because she knows you, like no one else does, inside and out. You lean down to kiss her again, and it feels like the very first time, in another bedroom, far from here, all over again.

After all the years of waiting and pain and heartbreak, you’re exactly where you’ve always wanted to be.

Everything is right.

***

 **Footnote** : In case you’re curious to see what it looks like, I based the description of Karma’s ring on [this](http://www.stevenstone.co.uk/blog/2013/11/17/a-stunningcontemporary-three-row-diamond-ring-design/) Steve Stone design.


End file.
